


Born to Die

by hithelleth



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Deathfic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hithelleth/pseuds/hithelleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Georgia wins. Everybody dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born to Die

**Author's Note:**

> I was sad and angry, and I had an anxiety attack in the middle of the night, so this happened. I'm a horrible person. Prepare your tissues.

The Militia were struggling to stand their ground, but they were being overpowered by the Federation Army. Monroe was riding right behind the front lines, shouting orders, trying half-encourage, half-scare his men to fight harder. Jeremy stuck as close to him as he could as Monroe was making his way to wherever the battle was the worst. Their men were dropping by the dozen at a time. Defeat was inevitable.

Then he saw him, leading the Georgian attack. Miles Matheson. Jeremy’s heart constricted. Why hadn’t he killed Miles when he’d had a chance? Probably because of the same reason he couldn’t help but feel in awe of him at this very moment, watching the man bring destruction to the Militia he had himself built.

Monroe must have seen Miles as well, for he turned his horse directly towards him, drawing his gun. Jeremy followed him, yelling to stop. Maybe the words got lost in the jumble of screams and bullets raining around them or Monroe just wouldn’t listen.

They were getting too close to the Georgians. Jeremy swore and dug his heels harder into his horse, trying to catch up with Monroe and make him stop, be it insubordination or not.

Jeremy could hear the impact that knocked the breath out of Monroe’s lungs. Monroe let go of his gun, swaying in the saddle as he clutched his chest.

No.

Sebastian’s body jerked, being hit again.

No. No.

It seemed to Jeremy as if Monroe had been falling from his horse in slow-motion. Jeremy leaned forward in his saddle, desperately reaching for him. He would put Sebastian in front of him and ride away into safety.

Jeremy’s own horse whined, a strained, painful sound, rearing up on its hind legs. Jeremy grabbed the reins harder, trying to steady the beast, but its legs gave in. Something scorched his left side. A point of sharp heat pierced his shoulder. The reins slipped from his grasp. Another bullet sunk into his abdomen just before he harshly landed on the ground. Pain spread from the wounds in concentric waves.

He rolled around, looking for Sebastian. He was lying motionless just a couple of feet to the right. Jeremy tried to call for help, but words wouldn’t come right from his mouth. No one heard him. There was chaos all around them, boots and legs running, and he couldn’t tell which colour the uniforms were.  

At last someone was there to help, kneeling beside Bass. Jeremy’s first thought was that someone will come to get him soon, too; the President just came first, naturally.

His relief was gone just as fast as it had come. He recognised the face of the man who was now gathering Bass in his arms. The voice, however, was strange, a broken tone he had never heard before. It couldn’t belong to the same man.

“I’m sorry… I lied…” the man was saying.

It took so much effort to put it all together in Jeremy’s messed-up head, his mind refusing to work properly. His arm didn’t want to cooperate, either, when he tried to point his gun at Miles. Was it always so heavy?

He gripped it tightly, willing his hand to stop shaking. He blinked to see more clearly.

Sebastian made a sound, choking out something like ‘I know’, Jeremy couldn’t be sure with all the noise around them and the buzzing inside his head. But he saw Sebastian’s head fall back helplessly.

As if Miles had only then become aware of Jeremy, he looked at him, directly into the gun pointed at him. He mouthed something, it could have been ‘fuck you’, or was it ‘thank you’? Jeremy put all the strength he had left into his index finger and pulled the trigger.  

Miles’ face disappeared from his line of vision.

Jeremy’s arm fell limp beside him. He blinked to clear the haze in his eyes. Again, and again, but the mist just grew thicker. Wasn’t it just past noon? His eyelids felt heavy. He had to stay awake, though. If only it wasn’t getting so dark. And still darker.

***

Charlie screamed. She screamed and cried until her voice failed her and her tears dried off. She lost track of time. She was vaguely aware of the soldiers of the Georgia Federation passing by her, their attack unhindered by the fall of Miles Matheson, their general. On the opposite side, the Monroe Militia surrendered. She couldn’t care less.

Only when someone tried to move Miles, she realised it must have been hours since he had died. The men were piling the dead on pyres. She didn’t stop them as they dragged Miles’ body away just like any other. He was not important, not to them. But she had already known that.

She stumbled to her feet, found a spot out of the way. There she waited until the dusk fell and they lit the pyres. ‘Ours’ and ‘theirs’, all burning. The men around her were rolling up their collars, covering their mouths and noses, turning their backs on the scene, many of them retching. Charlie stood watching the fires, numb to the stench.

Someone came for her before dawn, sent by Rachel, and she went with him. She collapsed in her bed, not sure whether to sleep or to die herself.

She woke up. Washed. Ate. Drank. Said and did the right things when she was supposed to.

Days went by. One. Two. Three. A week. A fortnight.

She dug it from the bottom of her bag and hid it in the inside pocket of her jacket. Rachel was out, who knew where, with her important friends, so there was no one to question her. She paused a moment, a thought of writing her mother a note passing fleetingly through her mind, but she discarded it. Rachel would be fine, she had always been.

When she stepped out into the street, an acquaintance, someone from the Army, greeted her. Charlie returned the pleasantries, causally mentioning she was taking a walk before going to bed. The woman nodded, a fake sympathy and pity on her face, but Charlie knew she was the same as everybody. No one cared about her these days, the strange Matheson girl, a niece to the late evil general. It was just as well.

It took her less than an hour to reach the outskirts of the town. She found a quiet spot and sat under a tree, leaning against the trunk, facing north.

She had probably made the decision the day they had escaped Monroe, the day Danny had died in an explosion. They had only taken an hour to bury his not yet cold body in the woods, before continuing to run through the night.

Miles had been the reason she hadn’t objected, hadn’t crumpled by Danny’s grave and waited for the Militia to catch up. She had kept going, fighting by Miles’ side.

Charlie took the flask from her jacket, unscrewed the lid and took a sip. A soothing heat burned down her throat.

Maggie had told her how Ben had found her when Charlie had turned fifteen. She had told her about the potion and taught her how to make it. She had given her the flask before leaving Sylvania Estates. “There are worse fates than death,” she had said, “I hope you never understand what I mean, but if you do, you might want to have this.”

Charlie understood now.

Yes, there were fates worse than death.

Everyone was dead. Dad, Maggie, Danny, Miles. Even Monroe and that vicious Captain. Charlie stopped hating the two, just as she stopped feeling anything else.

She didn’t fool herself. There was no happiness in death, no better place to go, no one to meet again. But there was freedom. Freedom from the emptiness all around her and the void inside her.

Charlie drank, sip by sip, the alcohol and the poison slowly numbing that little what was left of her. The northern sky was growing dark from the east. 

In the morning, the change of watch headed to the border found her body slumped at the bottom of the tree. There was a note in her pocket, only two words. _Burn me_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta’d, so quibble away if you see something. Comments are always welcome.


End file.
